Massachusetts
April 1858
Reading, writing, and ’rithmetic. How soon these former students forget the basics.” Mrs. Martha Phipps squinted, the better to decipher the sluggish script on the job-board posting. A large S at the top of the page caught her eye, although she couldn’t condone the paper’s ragged tear. Still, if this job seeker had the skills Martha required, she would make allowances for paltry penmanship and an inability to use scissors.
Alas, the S stood for seamstress, and one without scissors, apparently. Martha’s lips pursed. She must find another store with a job board. She’d already spent three long, achy days hunting. How had she managed to stand all day, teaching, before she married Mr. Phipps? Now, that was a man who understood the importance of careful cursive, God rest his soul.
“May I help you?” The balding store proprietor’s hands rubbed together.
Martha sighed. “I cannot find what I require on this posting board.”
His hands stilled. “Come in to look but never buy.”
How rude. But then, her hearing wasn’t what it used to be. “Pardon?”
“I’ll look before we bid good-bye,” he enunciated. “Although an employment agency might serve you better. Not too many maids or cooks come here to advertise. Mostly fellows who’ve been let go from the Boston & Worcester Railroad.”
He thought her deportment fine enough to indicate she could afford a cook? Martha couldn’t suppress a twitter of pleasure. “Mr. Beadle, is it?”
“Uriah Beadle of Beadle’s Dry Goods.” He bowed, something too few men did nowadays.
“Alas, I haven’t need of a handyman. Or a cook. You see, I shall soon visit my great-nephew’s ranch in Texas.” An arid place, in her imaginings. Although today, with spring not yet sprung in New England, dry heat held some appeal. “Jackson, my nephew, requested I bring songbirds. One red, one yellow, but brown headed will do.”
“Waste of my time,” he mumbled.
“Speak up, please?”
“Sounds sublime. But we do not carry birds.”
She laughed. “Not birds. Songbirds. Female singers for his saloon.”
“Saloon?” Was his hearing as impaired as hers?
She withdrew Jackson’s latest letter from her bag, thrust it under his nose, and pointed at the word in question as if he were a primary student she taught to read. “‘Saloon.’” Christened with an s, looped until the final n. “’Tis difficult to read his lazy longhand, true.”
His eyes narrowed. Martha recognized where his thoughts had taken him. Well, she’d spent years educating others and correcting ignorance, and it was not a habit she’d forsaken in her retirement.
“The word saloon is derived from the Italian, sala, first a private assembly room, and since last century, an entertainment hall or ship’s dining room. It can also refer to an unsavory establishment, true, but Jackson would never own one of those.”
Mr. Beadle’s hand covered his smile. “Believe that, if it helps you sleep at night.”
“What, sir?”
“Informative, all right.” He rubbed his hands together again. “What was the red and yellow thing?”
“Hair color. Looks matter in the theater. Perhaps Jackson hopes to put on a play.”
“Shakespeare, no doubt.” He chuckled. Perhaps he was thinking of one of the Bard’s more amusing comedies.
“Jackson often laments the dearth of cultured women in Wildrye. I’ve no doubt he wishes me to find the finest female specimens of talent, since he’s willing to pay such a wage.”
“Pay, you say?”
She pointed at the letter again. “‘Seventy-five apiece ought to do it fair if they sing well.’ Although fairly would have been more proper, being an adverb describing—”
“Seventy-five.” He nodded at the paper. “I can help you, after all. Hear that singing?”
She cocked her head to the side but heard nothing. “A bit,” she lied.
“My nieces. One with hair of flax, the other with hair of fire. Singing, day and night.”
A redhead. A blond. Singing upstairs. Martha’s chin trembled in time with her aching ankles. “Would they be willing to leave Boston?”
“They’ll go, all right. Now, that fee?”
“Wage.”
“No, a fee, for me as the gals’ broker.” He strode to the foot of the establishment’s back stairs. “Quit that wally-hooing and come down. Someone wants to hire you.”
She’d heard his shout just fine. “If they’re acceptable, of course.”
“They’re acceptable.” He held out his hand. “You’ve given me the deal of a lifetime.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve given them the chance of a lifetime.”
She placed her gloved hand in his. Done. Jackson would be so pleased by her efforts.
“Now then,” Mr. Beadle said. “Will this be cash or a bank draft?”